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“A callboy, huh? You begged so fucking sweetly when I had you spread out, coming apart on my cock like you’d never been touched before.” -- Scarlett Reed was done being the perfect, cheated-on wife. When her husband demanded an open marriage, she hired a callboy for one wild, no-holds-barred night of payback. He owned her body—hard, deep, filthy—until she left cash and vanished at dawn. Now she's pregnant. And the "callboy" is back: Ryder Voss, ruthless billionaire, smirking in the shadows. He pins her close, hand on her belly, voice dark and dripping heat: "You paid me to fuck you senseless, Scarlett. Now you're carrying my baby... and I want more. Every inch. Every moan. Forever." One night of revenge. One lifetime of obsession. Will she run... or surrender?

On the day of the crash, I called Enzo Vitale ninety-nine times on the emergency channel. On the hundredth call, his Consigliere finally picked up. "Don Enzo has already used family resources to escort Miss Moretti to a private hospital," he said. "Her condition…isn’t good. Don asked me to tell you not to disturb him again." But that was not the worst part. When I woke up, my baby was gone. The doctor said the accident was too severe and they could not save the child. Then I heard the truth. “Chiara is carrying my child,” Enzo said. “Her last wish is to have a child before she goes. I gave her that. But this must stay between us. Alessia cannot know.” “We had no choice,” my mother Rosalina said, her voice flat. “Chiara doesn't have long. We want her last days to be peaceful.” “Alessia will understand,” my father Alberto said. “She's always been reasonable. She'll see this is about giving a dying woman her final wish.” They were comforting a dying woman. My child was dead. But all they cared about was Chiara's baby. I stumbled away. Chiara stood at the end of the hallway and smiled at me. “I am not dying,” she whispered. “I just want everything you have.” I picked up my phone and dialed a number. “Professor Luciano,” I said quietly. “I've changed my mind. I am ready to join your closed medical research program.” The woman who once begged for love had died with her child.

The cocktail hour had just ended when I picked up a video call in the bridal suite. It was Ethan, three years from now. By then, time‑travel tech had matured enough to let him contact me three years into the past. After enough specific details, I finally believed it. The man on the screen really was Ethan, three years older. I rubbed my aching ankle and pouted at him through the screen. "Ethan, smiling at all these guests is exhausting. But the second I remember I actually married you today, I'm happy all over again." "We're still happy three years from now, right?" He was leaning back against a headboard, and he didn't answer. His face was flat and unreadable. Then I heard it: a woman's voice from his end, low and breathy, asking to be kissed. I froze for a second, then covered my mouth and laughed. "Is that future me? In broad daylight? Get a room." Ethan turned the camera into the bed. My maid of honor was lying there, naked, sprawled across his chest. Her body was covered in hickeys. He looked straight at me as I started to break, and his voice didn't shift at all. "As soon as the reception ended, I told you I had a client meeting. I went to her room instead." "Jo, now you know what's coming. The guests haven't gone home yet. If you want a divorce tonight, you can have one. Up to you."

In seven years of marriage, Dominic had brought up divorce seventeen times. Every single time ended in an ugly scene, because I couldn't stand Serena taking my place. She was the sister of Lucas, his late right-hand man, yet she'd climbed into his bed. I'd openly thrown her out during a Family council and had her name added to the exile list behind his back. Because of me, she was ambushed on the way into exile and lost the use of both legs, confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Dominic should have hated me. But he suddenly stopped asking for a divorce. He even let me sit beside him again at Family councils, where everyone respectfully addressed me as Donna. As if everything had gone back to the way it was. Until the day I couldn't help but ask him why he wouldn't divorce me anymore. He finally told me the truth. "I got a phone call from myself, ten years in the future. "He told me that if I went through with the divorce, I'd be destroyed. Because you'd tie her up in a car and burn her alive." He looked at me, nothing but exhaustion in his eyes. "I already owe her a pair of legs. I can't owe her a life too. "As for you... "This is the life we've got. Let's just leave it at that." With that, he wheeled Serena past me without another glance. In that moment, I felt like a clown. A life spent chasing him for answers. Suddenly, I didn't want it anymore.

My fiancee, Bianca Milas, had a peculiar quirk. She never answered my phone calls after 9 p.m.. Even during our honeymoon phase, she would hang up on me without hesitation as soon as it was 9 p.m.. Once, I came home late and realized that one of my enemies had sent killers after me. In a panic, I had called her. When she finally answered, she simply said impatiently, “Grow up. Ever heard of respecting someone’s routine?” That night, I was slashed three times and nearly lost my life. One day, while using her computer, I accidentally saw a call log synced to her phone showing a call from 9 p.m. to 9 a.m.. Every single night, for five years, she had been engaged in twelve-hour calls. I recognized the number. It belonged to her mother’s student, Derek Steadman. Derek worked as her teaching assistant. My whole body sagged, and fatigue washed over me. I sat there motionless for a long while, then called off our marriage license appointment. She never answered my calls, so I did not see the point in answering hers any longer.

The buzzing of my phone in the middle of the night jolted me awake. On the other end of the line came a voice I could never forget. It was my daughter! However, she died three years ago!